


Learning Conformity

by voksen



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Branding, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Illustrated, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-10-22
Updated: 2009-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:51:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So yeah this is the shameless slavekink AU.  Sorry 'bout that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Crawford's first impression of the new slave, informed by a quick glance as he was dragged in collar and chains through the front gate of his Lord's holding (and the even briefer vision that had coalesced in his mind days earlier) was that he wasn't much to look at.

Perhaps it wasn't the fairest assessment, as he'd no doubt walked or been pulled behind a horse from beyond the border. Crawford also knew better than most that things - and people - were not always what they seemed, but nevertheless, it was true.

He was about average in height, with a lean build that seemed _slight_ more than anything under his baggy, tattered clothing, especially compared to the soldiers who surrounded him. Every visible inch of skin was coated with grime: road dust, blood, and probably half a dozen other kinds of filth. His hair was long, in the barbarian style, but matted and caked with mud into a tangled reddish-brown mess.

Rumor already had it that he was a demon, capable of pouring poison into a man's ear and destroying his soul; of seducing and ruining a woman with a word and a look. Rumor, of course, was never to be believed - and never to be discarded. The collar he wore supported it, anyway; it was thick, nearly two inches tall, and covered in runes and wards. It was also the cleanest thing about him.

Still, if there was any truth to it, it made him quite a prize, despite the sad condition he was in; anyone could make a reputation on the mastery of a demon, and a powerful one would be the jewel of even a king's collection.

But Crawford was a busy man. One slave more or less in his master's collection didn't change that, nor did it lessen his duties. He didn't think about the outlander again until late that evening, as he sat in Lord Eszet's chamber, outlining the risks and possible gains of renegotiating a treaty.

A vision flickered faintly behind his eyes; brief and nigh-useless, just enough warning to keep him from startling when a sharp knock came at the door. Eszet ordering someone else into one of their meetings was unprecedented, and Crawford did not appreciate the unforeseen change.

"Enter!" Eszet commanded peremptorily, leaning back into his heavy chair, away from the table where he and Crawford sat.

The door swung open with a low groan and one of the guardsmen stepped in, rope in hand; a second later, he'd jerked the outland slave into the room and tied his lead to a thick bar on the wall. Eyes never leaving his charge, he bowed in the Sire's direction and backed out again.

Had Crawford been less observant, he might never have connected the slave before him now with the bedraggled wretch he'd seen earlier in the day. They'd washed him, groomed him like a champion animal, and chained him like the same - his wrists were shackled together with a length of chain between them, from which the lead tying him to the wall extended. The tall runed collar was still locked around his neck; now, however, it was joined by a leather gag forced deep into his mouth, keeping him silent. Perhaps there had been more than a little truth in the rumors...

"He cleans up well," Crawford's master observed. He was given to stating the obvious - not that anyone would ever call him to task on it. "Looks like a fox, with all that shit off of him."

"Yes, sir," Crawford agreed, knowing it was expected; in this case, it was even the truth. The slave's hair, washed and herbed, was a bright coppery red; they'd left it long and loose so that it fell down past his bare shoulders and almost covered his eyes. He was fitter than Crawford had initially thought him, as well, though he still looked a bit underfed. They'd dressed him in skin-tight women's leggings, laced up the sides, to humiliate him, but it seemed he hadn't gotten the message. He looked fearlessly at both of them, meeting their gazes with deep blue eyes, the color startling beneath all that brilliant hair.

"He's a brave one." Eszet shifted forwards in his chair, drawing Crawford's attention immediately back to himself. "And a little too proud, I think, even for a demon. He needs humbling." Leaning his head back in contemplation, his fingers tapped out a steady rhythm on the arm of his chair. "You still speak the barbarians' tongue," he said finally, waving his fingers at Crawford and not waiting for an answer. "Tell him he's my property. Tell him to display himself...thoroughly."

Crawford did still speak it, of course; once learned, he rarely forgot anything. Forgetting something so important would have been detrimental to his survival and future plans. He snapped his fingers, the sound loud and sharp in the quiet of the room. The slave's eyes fixed on him immediately, narrowed slightly. It was a strange feeling, to be so assessed by a man bound, gagged, and shamed, but Crawford found it intriguing. If he kept half his spirit, then demonic powers or not, he might prove to be very useful. Of course, it was that same spirit that would make everyone yet more determined to break him...

"You belong to Lord Eszet," he began, keeping eye contact. In the end, after all, they were both slaves - though Crawford's place in the household was somewhere between servant and adviser, rather higher than any of the others. Meeting _Crawford's_ eyes wouldn't get him punished by anyone who saw.

There was no one else within miles who spoke the language, so it was safe enough to explain more thoroughly than he'd been told to; no one could tell he'd done anything but what was ordered. "He wants to see you submit. Take off the leggings and stand naked."

The slave's eyes slid from Crawford to his master; not unexpected, but Crawford hadn't missed the almost imperceptible pause between them as he took in the knife buried point-first into the wood of the table, the swords and bullwhip displayed in their place of honor on the wall behind. His smile, stretched wide around the thick gag, was really more of a baring of teeth.

He raised his hands, the chain between his wrists clanking slightly, and tugged against the lead. The knot was tight and strong, however; he might have to be cut free. Shrugging slightly and looking magnificently unbothered by the bindings, he turned closer to the wall to give himself more slack.

The leather thongs fastening the sides of the slave's leggings loosened easily under his fingers - at least at the top. It took some doing to get the rest; he didn't have enough slack to bend all the way over.

Lord Eszet chuckled, watching him twist and balance. "Just like a fox in a trap, hmm, Crawford?" He pounded his fist on the desk as the slave squirmed out of the still-tight leggings. If he'd been meaning to make him stumble, it didn't work, which Crawford found quite interesting - though not nearly so much as the brief glimpse he'd caught of his face behind his hair; even the gag couldn't make that sneer look like anything but what it was.

When he straightened, though, tossing his hair out of his face with a quick, practiced jerk of his head, it was gone. Smart of him; too bad he wasn't smart enough to pick up on and follow through with the rest of what was wanted from him.

The slave's gaze had strayed to Crawford again as he stood casually, showing no signs whatsoever of minding the shame of standing naked in front of two of his betters.

Lord Eszet looked to him as well, the ominous smirk curling his lips making warnings jangle through Crawford's mind. "He seems to like you," he said, reaching across the desk and working the knife out of the wood, then slapping it down flat in front of Crawford. "See what you can do with him. I expect you can hold him to some kind of standard in a week. Start now."

It was not a job Crawford wanted, prestige - possibly enough to see him a freedman - though the taming would bring with it; he was _not_ a slave trainer, and to break someone so confident in so short a time... He was being set up to fail, and he knew it.

It was not a command he could decline.

Half-bowing from his chair, he reached for the blade. As his hand fell on it, vision took him with more force than he'd ever felt; images, pathways flashed through his mind with dizzying clarity and speed. The slave was in each and every one of them: kneeling naked on the ground, Crawford's own hand tangled in his hair; sleeping beside Crawford's bed; being beaten bloody by a pair of soldiers; springing at him with a feral snarl; tilting his head to listen - and last, seared into his mind like a brand, the two of them riding away, unshackled, uncollared, from a keep which stood in flames behind them.

His fingers closed around the knife and he stood automatically, mind whirling with the unexpected chaos of possibilities. He hadn't been out long - neither of them were looking at him strangely. Good; that would have been disastrous.

The slave stood still as Crawford approached him, glancing once to the Lord, then watching him steadily.

With a flick of the knife, Crawford cut the rope binding him to the wall, wrapping the shortened end around his hand for a better grip on it. "Kneel," he ordered, again in the barbarian tongue.

He got a notably disrespectful snort back, despite the fact that he had a weapon so near; interesting. Still, with Eszet watching, he didn't have time for delicacy. He lashed out, catching the slave just above the line of his gag with a solid punch. the hilt of the knife still gripped in his hand lending extra force. His knuckles stung with the impact, but it had had the desired effect; the slave staggered, nearly losing his balance. Crawford grabbed a handful of his hair in the hand that held the rope, yanking him downwards until he collapsed to his knees, his eyes wide with shock that slowly sharpened into fury.

"I said _kneel,_ " Crawford told him, over the sound of Eszet laughing behind them. "And you will do what I say because you are a slave." The future promised more, true; but even with his goal in sight, there was a long and dangerous path to walk before he - they - reached it. "And," he added, voice lowering, "because you are _mine_."

 

  



	2. Chapter 2

They chain Schuldig to the big iron ring in the wall, his wrists tight shackled, pulled high enough that he has to lean forwards, arms high over his head. The leather gag is back in his mouth - the four soldiers are willing enough to do the job, but at least one of them is both superstitious enough to believe in rumors of _demon blood_ and its powers and wary enough that he'll take no chances with this red-haired outlander and his weirdly-runed collar.

Crawford watches, his mouth a tight, hard line: this is not his will, but he can't stop it. He despises helplessness perhaps just as much as he hates not knowing what will happen, and he's had more than enough of both over the last week, since he's been attempting to train Schuldig at his master's order. Not that he doesn't know what's going to happen here: it takes no visions to know that the irons in the forge are meant for Schuldig's skin; his own brand, years old and hidden at the back of his shoulder, is proof of that.

It's what's beyond that that's the problem: the look Schuldig had given him, when they'd pulled him through the door and he'd seen the fires, the irons, the chains - it had not been friendly in the slightest. Not that their relationship in general has been _friendly_ ; Schuldig alternates between chafing in captivity and not noticing he _is_ a slave on a second's notice. Crawford suspects it will be rather harder for him to forget with a reminder burned into him.

But if Schuldig dislikes him enough over it to refuse to cooperate when it's necessary - or worse, actively tries to sabotage him - both their chances of escape will be so much dust. His visions are infuriatingly silent on the subject; the future, when he tries to study it, too mutable, shifting as fast as Schuldig's moods, as if they both do it simply to cause him trouble.

One of the soldiers pulls an iron out of the flames, hot, but not quite hot enough, to Crawford's eye; he waves it near Schuldig anyway, laughs at the way Schuldig sways away from it, at the way he's held tight at the wrists. He shoves it back in the fire, then returns, unlaces Schuldig's leggings, smirking: it's writ all over him that he wants Schuldig to object, to try to kick at him - anything to give him an excuse to punish him.

Schuldig, for once, does the smart thing and stays quiet, still. It's probably helped by the gag; even though he doesn't speak much of the language, his tone is always unmistakable. Crawford can see, from his spot by the door, tightness in Schuldig's jaw, around his eyes: he's nowhere near as docile as he's pretending to be, and it worries him.

"Where should we mark him?" the soldier says, calling the others over to look.

"On the ass, like a bull," another suggests, laughing.

"A bull? You mean a cow."

Even if Crawford had been inclined to laugh at that particular caliber of joke, he would not have: he sees what they miss, Schuldig testing his bonds with little jerks of his wrists, too easy, too controlled to rattle the chains. He's had practice at that, and Crawford wonders when - and how he had kept it from Crawford, and why.

But the shackles and the bindings are fast, and the iron is hot: pulled from the fire, it gleams; Crawford remembers, viscerally, the strike of it like a venomous snake, the smell of seared flesh, and something turns over in his stomach. He forces himself to watch, anyway, angry at himself for not finding a quicker way out, angry at Eszet for forcing this so fast, angry at the soldiers for how they manhandle Schuldig about - and angry, illogically, at Schuldig for how he lets them.

Schuldig's body jerks at the first strike of the iron, chains chiming together. The second makes him moan, muffled around the gag; the third sees him _hardening_. Crawford doesn't understand it, but there's no denying it, no missing it, with the leggings around his ankles: the fourth and he gasps, leaning hard into the support of his shackles.

They notice before the fifth, swinging him around to face away from the wall, his arms twisting, so they can get a better look, laughing, pointing, making ancient, tired jokes about barbarians and sex.

Schuldig's eyes, cold, clear blue, find Crawford's. He doesn't look away, even as one of the soldiers reaches out with a cold iron, pokes at his cock suggestively; it's as if he's daring Crawford to look, to watch. As if he wants to be seen like this, even bound and burned and being shamed by a bunch of worthless grunts.

"Maybe I should," says the brander loudly, pulling a hot iron from the fire and turning back to Schuldig, the lot of them egging each other on. "Not like he'd miss it."

(Finally, a flash of vision in Crawford's mind; sickening, too real, and he pushes it away as soon as he can.)

"Stop," he says, and four heads turn to him with the incredulity of freemen being given orders by a slave, even one like Crawford. But they're close to overstepping their boundaries, as well - too close - and far more fatally. "Eszet wants him whole. Finish the job."

The final line of the four-barred _E_ on Schuldig's flank is vengefully, unnecessarily deep, but better that than the alternative. Still, Crawford can all but feel Schuldig's eyes on him - and others' eyes on Schuldig, in turn - as he leads him back through the keep, naked by necessity from the fresh wound.

Back in his room, he shuts the door behind them, then reaches out and unbuckles Schuldig's gag, tossing it aside.

Instead of speaking, Schuldig wipes his mouth with the backs of his still-bound hands, spits on the floor. Incredibly, he's still hard, cock thick and heavy-looking between his legs. He laughs, a sharp chuckle, and Crawford's eyes snap back to his face. "You owe me," he says, voice lower than usual, rough.

"Do I."

Schuldig smiles, but it's sharp, cat-like, nasty. "Suck my cock," he says, "and I won't tell them about the visions."

Crawford's eyes narrow. He doesn't know how Schuldig found out, but - for the moment - that's beside the point. What does matter is that he is not going to let Schuldig get the upper hand, even through blackmail, not while they're here - not ever, but especially not in the middle of the keep, where everything depends on status. "Take care of it yourself," he counters, "and I'll see us both free by the end of the month."

There's a pause, long, considering, Schuldig's gaze for once assessing instead of furious or hungry; then, the clink of metal on metal as, slowly, Schuldig touches himself, one long caress, root to head, both hands.

"I thought that's what you might do," Crawford says, and he sees Schuldig's expression flicker at the idea that Schuldig's so predictable Crawford doesn't need to _know_.

But he doesn't stop stroking, and Crawford doesn't stop watching.

**Author's Note:**

> art by stonecarnival


End file.
